


The Invitation

by telleroftynesidetales



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23685646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telleroftynesidetales/pseuds/telleroftynesidetales
Summary: After completing the task given to him by Professor Carrow, Blaise awakens in his Dark Arts class but can't remember how he got there. He learns what happened and is then given a personalized invitation to Malfoy Manor.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	The Invitation

“Velox Absolvisti,” Blaise intoned, forcing his wand arm halfway up. 

The magical bindings Bellatrix conjured to arrest him exploded, leaving behind an odorless violet gas. Liberated of their restrictions, he stumbled forward and caught his balance on an overfull trashcan. The spell that freed him was Professor Carrow’s newest creation. As was the case with most undocumented spells, there were downsides to its use. Fortunately, this one only had the adverse effect of making users temporarily lose feeling in their legs.

Panting, Blaise turned his head leftward and saw that the fog had cleared. Where its blinding mist once stood was a small, tan-bricked antique shop. The spotless windows were vertical, and protected by titanium bars. Barrels of bubbling green sludge sat near the entrance. Above the ajar door was a linen banner that, in neat cursive handwriting, read “Borgin and Burkes.” The letters shimmered gold.

“I’ve finally found the damn place.”

Blaise shakily walked to the door, his ankles cramping. Upon his entry, a greasy-haired man with severely blistered lips rose from behind a wooden counter. He wore a black jumpsuit and dingy latex gloves. 

“We don’t get many Hogwarts students this time of night,” said the clerk, eyeing Blaise’s Slytherin scarf. “You must be one of the brave kiddies.”

A trapdoor opened in front of a blood-splattered bookcase. Loud footsteps were heard before a husky man holding a burned crucifix arrived. He was bald, but had an auburn beard that covered most of his face. His outfit was identical to the other’s.

“This lad’s either brave or incredibly stupid, Mr. Borgin,” he huffed, propping the object he carried against the counter. 

“I’m inclined to believe he has a good reason for being out so late, Mr. Burke,” smirked the clerk.

Blaise glanced around, the sinister sights intriguing him. Two rusty meat hooks hung from the low ceiling. White-flamed candles lit the cracked walls. An assortment of clay serpent masks levitated in the back of the store, their forked tongues dripping liquified ash.

“Well, let’s hear it then! What’s your business,” Mr. Borgin thundered.

Blaise flinched. “Apologies. I…wanted to buy a skull.”

“He wants to buy a skull,” laughed Mr. Burke. “Those have been on backorder for months. Who are you to skip the line?”

“Say we did have one. What’re you planning on doing with it, anyway? They aren’t for nothing ‘cept one thing and I’m willing to bet you aren’t that skilled,” Mr. Borgin pried.

The left side of Blaise’s upper lip arched in annoyance. “Never claimed it was for me; Professor Carrow wants it. Now, do I tell him that you refused to sell it to me or what?”

“Oh, that changes everything,” Mr. Borgin conceded, tapping the counter with a bone wand. “We owe Amycus a favor. He set up a rather fun party for myself and Mr. Burke with a Veela girl. I still remember the thump of her last heartbeat.”

The counter became see-through. There were two shelves inside. Mummified hearts sat on the top, and on the bottom, flanked by stacks of coal, was a human skull.

“Amycus will know his wait was worthwhile. That little beauty belonged to a Nigerian prince. He wasn’t even dead for a week before we took it from his stinking body,” revealed Mr. Burke. 

Mr. Borgin handed the skull to Blaise. It vibrated in his grasp. 

“Best be running along now. People go missing at this time of night. We’d hate for someone to snatch an able-bodied young man like yourself,” Mr. Burke hissed, winking. 

Blaise shuffled to the door, peeking over his shoulder before he left. “How much do I owe you?”

“Free of charge,” chorused Mr. Borgin and Mr. Burke.

The door slammed shut behind Blaise. A full moon had risen. In the distance, he heard the unmistakable howl of a werewolf. Listening for the predator’s footsteps, Blaise was unaware of what transpired mere seconds later. A lanky, broad-shouldered man in a dark purple blazer apparated next to him. His short, brown hair was messy and receding. It was Professor Carrow.

“Bold of you to venture here at such a late hour, Mr. Zabini.”

“Sir,” Blaise jumped.

“Ah, you got what I needed. Well done,” complimented Professor Carrow, snatching the skull. 

“Sir, what’s that for,” asked Blaise. 

Professor Carrow’s bloodshot blue eyes twinkled in the moonlight. “I can’t spoil tomorrow’s lecture.”

“But sir I won’t tell anyone else.”

“Servus Imperium!”

Baby blue steam infiltrated Blaise’s nostrils and he fell unconscious. 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Blaise awoke in a humid classroom. Now somehow seated at an ink-drenched desk, he confusingly scanned the perimeters. Gryffindors were forced to stand in the back and share parchment for notetaking. They tried to ignore the fact that Neville Longbottom was suspended from the rafters, cocooned to his neck in acromantula spider silk. 

Slytherins sat comfortably at the front, listening to Professor Carrow. Judging by the man’s changed attire of navy-blue robes and sheepskin slippers, hours had passed since his arrival in Knockturn Alley.

“Yes, you heard me correctly,” he grinned, stroking the skull that Blaise retrieved. “A dead man can be raised for your bidding with a freshly brewed broth of his bone cartilage, raven eggs, and unicorn blood. Your homework is to discover the necessary incantation to command him. You are dismissed.”

Professor Carrow then turned his back to the departing class, and rummaged through a floating locker. 

Blaise watched the students quietly depart. He planned to stay behind and inquire about his missing memories between the previous night and the lecture. Pansy Parkinson, however, had a different idea. 

“Draco says not much happened when you met his aunt. Listen, you’re probably thinking really highly of yourself but don’t be an idiot,” she whispered, gathering her belongings. “My family knows the Lestranges and the Blacks. Bellatrix isn’t someone you want to play with.”

Upon hearing those distinguished surnames, Professor Carrow did an about-face. “Ms. Parkinson, I do believe you have somewhere to be. Leave now, or I’ll give you detention.”

Clutching three books on potion-making to her chest, Pansy left. Her flat-ironed brunette locks bounced, the roots glistening yellow at irregular intervals.

Blaise went to follow, but Neville’s bound body was lowered to block his progression. 

“Off so soon, Mr. Zabini? I thought you had a good reason for staying,” Professor Carrow chuckled wheezily.

“Sir, I was wondering why I can’t remember a few things,” admitted Blaise. 

“Be grateful. You were a test subject,” Professor Carrow explained. “The spell I hit you with has a similar effect to that of the Imperius Curse. You were hypnotized and told to do your normal routine. The effect has a time limit, though, and I have yet to learn how to extend it. You’ll also notice a sudden onset of hunger, as well as possible nausea.”

Blaise’s stomach instantly grumbled.

“Not to worry. I’m certain that you’ll be fed properly,” Professor Carrow simpered, presenting him with a laminated black envelope.

“What’s this,” questioned Blaise. 

Professor Carrow shrugged his shoulders. “I imagine it’s an invitation of some sort, most likely one I wouldn’t open in the company of others. Privacy is of the essence, Mr. Zabini.”

“I’ll find somewhere I can be alone then,” ensured Blaise, shuffling around Neville. “Thank you, sir.” 

Pansy waited outside the door. Averting her hazel eyes from a love draught recipe, she rushed to join Blaise at his side. They traversed a crowded corridor, going against the flow of traffic. Neither noticed that Draco Malfoy observed their interaction from a shadowed balcony. 

“I’m not joking. Bellatrix wouldn’t even think twice about murdering you,” she claimed, spying the envelope. "And what's that you're holding?"

“Funny how you’re so concerned now, but weren’t back in the common room,” blurted Blaise. “You wanted her to hurt me, didn’t you?”

Pansy stopped in mid-stride. Open-mouthed, she placed a hand over her chest.

“Never. You insulted Draco, so I backed his decision to have her scare you, yes. When he told me nothing happened, I had to make sure you didn’t gloat about it. I don’t want you getting killed. We’re friends.”

“A true friend would’ve made sure none of this happened,” Blaise argued, cutting across Pansy to enter the boy’s lavatory. 

He slunk into the stall furthest from the entrance. His trembling hands unsealed the envelope. A faint trace of gasoline perfumed the corners. Both pages were blank, yet Bellatrix’s maniacal voice divulged the details of a secret meeting.

“It has been so very long since I’ve been properly entertained. How generous I am to give my secret admirer the chance to earn my favor. You will join myself and the Malfoys for dinner this evening at the Manor. I expect you to be here, dressed in your finest attire, the moment the sun sets. Save your excuses, they will do no good. Amycus has raved about your talents, but my dear sister and I want to hear them come out of your own mouth. Impress us, boy. You might be rewarded. Disappoint us, and I’ll take a trip to your mother’s home. My nighttime drop-ins tend to be messy. See you soon.”

The envelope crumbled to dust. Taking a deep breath and exhaling, Blaise exited the stall. He approached a large granite sink and rested his hands on its copper nozzle. Draco’s disheveled reflection was soon cast in the mirror. His uniform shirt was untucked and wrinkled. The enchantments of the room's pastel blue lighting uncovered neck bruises he attempted to conceal.

“Bet you loved that, didn’t you? Getting invited to my home by the woman you’re lusting over,” he sneered, drawing and aiming his hawthorn wand. “Every little perverse fantasy of yours seems possible now, huh? I should have known a marriage wouldn’t be respected by you, with your black widow of a mother.”

Turning to face him, Blaise locked gazes with Draco. Hatred simmered in those cold, grey eyes.

“Malfoy, I…

“Spare me the specifics. I knew something was amiss when she followed your scent. Do you think I can’t piece together the story?”

Blaise stood motionless, staring down the wand pointed at him. Its tip glowed crimson but did not fire a hex.

“You cannot begin to comprehend the things my aunt will make you do. Believe me; she won’t care if you cry. Begging for mercy is useless. Should you survive what is to come, I hope that you keep one thing in mind: you asked for this,” muttered Draco, leaving the lavatory. 

Blaise paced in silence, feeling the band Bellatrix branded him with burn.


End file.
